Born Wild
by Sober Dogs Bore Me
Summary: The War is over. But there is no peace. As Harry and his friends try to shrug away the remaining vestiges of the previous war, but another is swiftly occupying it’s heals, and this one has a completely different battlefield.


**Born Wild **

**SummerY: **The War is over. But there is no peace. As Harry and his friends try to shrug away the vestiges of the previous war, another is swiftly occupying it's heals, and this one has a completely different battlefield.

**Rating**: R. Or according to T.

**Chapter One** - In The End  
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It's the end, isn't it?

The words are uttered callously, as though complementing the whether, but he knows of the pain hidden behind them, the sorrow, the dead, and the hopelessness that permeates through their crevices like tears mourning for a dead future.

Yes, he says. It is.

A soft breeze ruffles through his hair as they walk, arm in arm, in a strained sad silence. Their path is a narrow and rough one, cutting uncertainly through midnight's chasms, dark areas around them completely devoid of detail. Through the thick canopy overhead, small moonlight streams cut though, here and there, collecting on the forest floor in small, misty, silver pools.

Beautiful isn't it?

Um-yes.

There is a strange uncomfortable silence between them, like the kind that springs up as the after effects of an argument. Besides the low crackling of the twigs underneath, the forest is unusually quiet. There are some howls in the distance, but in the immediate vicinity, it's is only them; a bearded gaunt man and a short bony girl, walking unhurriedly to some unknown destination.

What about the funeral, she asks suddenly, turning about abruptly and stopping him with a hand. Are you allowed to attend?

He sighs.

Minerva is trying, but…

It lingers in the air.

And suddenly she is agitated again, her forehead creased in worry, her eyes narrowed, and her arms animated, gesturing something in front of her as she starts walking again, back from where they came.

He frowns.

He needs her to be calm, collected, and beyond everything else, he needs her to understand or he is afraid that this delicate spindle of guesses, calculations, desires that he has cohered into a plan will go flying out of his grasp and into the cruel waiting arms of oblivion.

'Mione, Hermione.

He says, trying to keep his voice devoid of anything but a grim but calm uncertainty.

Calm down, nothing will happen to me.

Abruptly she stops and whips around, her posture screaming murder.

Calm! Don't tell me calm Harry. You are fucking going to Azkaban!

She hits home, she knows. All their little dances, all their evasions, all that _shit _that everyone has been partaking in to try and create the illusion of normality is shattered. He is going to Azkaban. He looks at her in the eye and tries to force out of his lips that he has already accepted that.

Ah, there is a little snag there, I'm afraid, he says, shrugging in a amused manner.

What!

He winces. He hates to see her like this, so close to losing control. In the moonlight her hair glimmers slightly and looks much more frizzled than usual, crowning behind her almost like a mane. Hey eyes have deep dark circles enshrouding them like some horrifying depression, a dark crater on the face. Her skin has lost its healthy pallor and glows, almost, a sickly stretched porcelain.

He hopes that the curve of his lips resembles a smirk.

They seem to be, he says, under the delusion that I will come quietly. I could break out of course, but…

He trails of at the furious expression that has settled into her face. Her eyes are seething. Her mouth is contorted into an ugly scowl.

How _can_ you, she hisses, coming so close that her breath hits his face like a bowl of rotten eggs. How-w can you joke at a time like this.

Her voice is cold and hard. The anger hits him much like falling on ice, a prolonged stinging pain. Her words echo slightly in the darkness. She is standing close, so close; her hands ball up into fists, her breasts push into his chest. He feels the twitches in his groin.

Pushing her away lightly he replies, just as hard.

What else do you want to me to do?

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Anything but _this! _

His eyes narrow and he crooks his head. And what exactly, he says, do you mean by _this_?

For a moment there are no words, only a palpable sense of disorientation between them. It wasn't right, as if their words were not their own, as if they are stolen from another mouth and forced to come rasping, angry, raw out of their throats. He is not himself; she has never been like this. The silence speaks much more than the noise.

You know what I mean. You know fully and still you do it. How-

What. Are. You talking about!

Don'

They lapse into a furious silence, as the argument dies like extinguished candles. Neither has the strength to do this.

There is a pale weariness in his limbs and a harsh pounding in his skull. The leaves leave long marks as they whip his face.

And then, then the world is night again.

The moon has, perhaps, been hidden by the clouds and the lights die, the pools dry out, simmering beautifully for a moment, as the streams feeding them turn black, and then the night spears it's tendrils through the silver. Plunging them into an icy, deep-seated darkness.

They continue walking.

Lumos.

A small light flares from his wand. A thin and narrow beam than somehow has a flickering quality, the kind of light that reminds him of pensive nights spent beside a fireplace. He turns his head and sees that she is crying. Silent tears are running down her cheeks, catching his light and becoming ablaze for a moment, before they resume their dreary journey.

He sighs.

Tel me 'Mione, he says, just tell me Hermione. And I'll do it. No questions asked.

She turns towards his slowly. There is no urgency in her features now, only a sense of … of complacency. Defeat. She echoes his words.

No questions asked?

He nods.

None.

She starts walking again. He is surprised. He didn't realize they had stopped. Looking at her back as she clumsily cuts through the tangle of trees and black, he closes his eyes and sighs deeply. He does not understand what was happening. This was not how he planned the night to progress. He had wanted a calm Hermione to be by his side when he presented his idea. This mixture, this amalgam of words, furious and sad, this concoction of eyes and glares and _almost_pushes… no, he thinks, as he begins to trudge up the road where he knew she would be waiting. No, he had certainly not planned it like this.

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She takes a deep breath and begins.

Become, she says, my old Harry. Fight this-she is shaking her head as he opens his mouth to interrupt-no, wait… fight this like you fought Voldemort. You were never afraid to say his name… so what is making you so afraid to acknowledge this?

They were standing, he notices in a detached manner. At some point they had stopped moving and were standing still on top of a small hit cut through the center by the path. There is a deep hungry darkness pulsating like an angry growl on all sides, but the canopy of the trees doesn't extend very far. He could see the inky turbulent sky. It promised tears.

She took another deep breath.

You can fight this Harry, she says softly. I know you can. But you… you just don't. Or won't. I just can't understand it anymore.

He just stands, stiff, his hands hanging uselessly by his side. She is still facing away. The wind carries her whispers like echoes from a dying man.

Why are you acting so pitiful?

Slowly she turns and raises her face.

She whispers again.

You have fought for everyone's life, Harry. Why do you refuse to fight for your'es.

It was not a statement. It was fact. It was the feel of someone finally understanding him and someone finally breaking away the last delusion he had so finely honed. It shatters and the slivers pierce his heart, sending the blood roaring to his hands, to his mouth, to his lips… to every part of his body that wants to and can hurt her, make her feel the pain he is experiencing inside, make her aware of the hollows that now spread a mile wide.

Why, Harry. Why?

_Why? Why? Why? _

He is shaking, she is smiling. breeze There is a small playing through the hair he wants to rip from the root. He watches a sliver of light strike her neck, making him painfully aware of the protrusion of her collar-bones, og her skin dipping like a waterfall into the soft curves of her chest.

I know you Harry.

I have known you for 9 years.

You are a lot of things. But you aren't this.

She is smiling softly, her eyes gleaming with hope. Thinking perhaps, she is reaching out to him, reaching out through the icy shroud encasing his heart. She is so beautiful in the moonlight, spindle thin with brown curls and big brown hopeful eyes. And a thin mouth. Like a doll.

She is as precious as a doll.

And as easy to snap.

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End file.
